The Dark Hour

by Robin Burcell

  They needed to find this kid before someone else did.

  Chapter 27

  December 10

  Amsterdam, The Netherlands

  Griffin had been extremely quiet since their initial return from the museum, and Sydney assumed his thoughts were consumed by the sketch of the woman Petra had described. Amazing he could even function after seeing it, she thought, as they walked the few blocks of residential streets toward the museum. He hadn’t dared park any closer, even if he could have done so. This at least gave them the advantage of looking as if they belonged in the neighborhood, dressed as they were in jeans and casual coats, Griffin again sporting his tortoiseshell-framed glasses.

  She glanced over at him, saw him keeping a sharp eye on their surroundings. Snow drifted down, but not enough to keep anyone indoors, and there were a number of pedestrians walking down Hobbemastraat. Lights shone from several windows of the houses they passed, a suffused golden glow illuminating tiny snowflakes that danced and twirled about the glass panes. Sydney imagined the residents sitting down to dinner with their families in rooms warmed by a fire, reminding her how much she missed her own family, even her mother’s overprotectiveness. It did, however, make her wonder about Griffin, where his family was, and she realized how very little she knew about him.

  “Over there,” he said as they walked down the street, then stopped about a half block away. “That arch leads into the garden entrance to the Rijksmuseum.”

  She surveyed the scene, noting it was a fairly busy intersection, what with the tram stop situated on the corner and the multitude of windows from the residences and businesses that faced the museum on the other corners. Not one conducive to a hit. “Where was he when he was killed?”

  “About midway between the entrance of the museum and the arch. Someone waited for him in the garden after he exited the museum. He staggered from there toward the arch,” he said as a patrol car cruised by, its wipers moving swiftly to clear the snow from the windshield. The vehicle slowed as it neared the murder scene, then cruised on. Griffin, however, remained rooted to the spot. “We have to assume the entire area is under surveillance, which means we need a plan.”

  “I like the plan where we leave.”

  She nearly jumped when he linked his arm through hers. “My plan’s better,” he said, leaning over, whispering into her ear, his lips brushing her lobe. A shiver swept through her. “Lovers.”

  “Your plan sucks,” she said, trying to pull her arm free, but he held tight. “Come up with a better one.”

  He looked at her, smiled. “Payback for Italy. For every time I tried to get you on that plane home and you refused.”

  A car approached, its headlights blinding her, and she smiled back at him, reaching up to caress his cheek for effect, her fingertips scraping the day’s growth of whiskers. When she saw his smile fade at her touch, she said, “Don’t forget that payback’s a bitch. Because I am so paying you back for this.”

  Once the car passed, they continued on, arm in arm across the street, toward the arch that was flanked on either side by massive-trunked trees, the bare branches towering into the dark sky. A wrought-iron fence surrounded the museum property, but the gate was open and they walked through beneath the grand arch, where just beyond it on either side, a bench was placed so that one could sit and view the vast landscape, at this moment beautiful, cold, and lonely. Trim paths meandered around formal beds framed by snow-covered boxwood hedges interspersed with tall, conical topiaries. No matter where Sydney looked, everything was masked with a soft blanket of white, hiding the imperfections, the shadows, the secrets, muffling her footfall, even on the gravel.

  To the right, about twenty yards beyond the archway, a statuette of a lion stood sentinel. “That’s where he fell,” Griffin said, nodding toward the sculpture.

  She examined the lion bust, followed a visual path from there to where Griffin said he’d been stabbed, and she realized that the snow at the top of one of the bushes nearest the bust seemed . . . less perfect, as though it had been disturbed.

  “Wait here,” Griffin told her. He walked toward the statue, then stopped, bent down, felt around, and stood, both hands filled with snow. “It’s not there,” he said, forming a snowball, then throwing it at her.

  Sydney brushed the white crystals from her coat. “Taking out your frustrations?”

  “Surveillance?” he said. “And look like you’re having fun.”

  “You are so going to get it.” Sydney bent down, scraped up a handful of icy slush, trying her best to look happy. She lobbed her snowball, not at him, but the bush where she saw the dip in the snow. “How about over there? See the dip in the hedge, like someone hit it and knocked the snow from the top?” She gave a loud laugh, quickly formed a couple more snowballs, then ran toward him. Hit him square in the chest. Before he could move, she hit him again. “Ha!”

  He shook his head, grinning as he moved back, working his way toward the bush. “There’s such a thing as overkill.”

  “You wish,” she said, scraping together several more snowballs, then throwing them at him as he ducked.

  He started forming his own, tossing the occasional one for effect. She kept up her assault, when suddenly he stood, called out, “Truce. I give!” And then he began to meticulously brush the snow from his pants, all the way down to the cuff. He found it, she thought, just as they heard a vehicle engine start up from across the street. They both froze momentarily, until Griffin gathered two handfuls of snow, forming it into a tight ball. And then he stalked toward her.

  “You said truce,” she pointed out.

  “I lied.” He tossed the snowball into the air, neatly caught it, a devilish look in his eye. “Unless you can think of a better way to get out of here?”

  She shook her head, backing up, then turned, ran beneath the arch to the gate, saw the headlights as the vehicle pulled out of its space. She stopped in her tracks, turned toward Griffin just as the snowball hit her in the leg. “They’re coming.”

  “They’re going to see what they want to see.” He lunged toward her, picked her up, spun with her in a circle, stopping finally when she faced the street. “Let’s make sure it’s what we want,” he said his mouth to her ear, his breath against her skin. “You have visual?”

  “Yes.”

  “Keep your face close to mine. I doubt they’ll recognize you, but they might know me.”

  Holding Sydney tight, he backed her to the arch, until she felt the cold of the mortar seeping through her coat in sharp contrast to the warmth of him against her.

  She leaned her head on his shoulder, saw the vehicle cruising toward them. Moving too slow for her comfort, she thought. It neared, and she saw the silhouette of a man’s head, the movement of him turning, watching them.

  She looked up at Griffin. “Definitely interested in us.”

  “Showtime.”

  And he lowered his mouth to hers.

  His lips were cold, but then quickly warmed. She hadn’t expected she’d notice that. But then neither had she expected that he’d kiss her as part of their cover, and she tried to relax, telling herself that this was the sort of thing spies did. Pretended to be something they weren’t. Lovers in the park, throwing snowballs, then ending their play with a kiss.

  The entire episode meant nothing. The fact that he held her, one hand at her head, fingers splayed in her hair, the other hand sliding down her back, pulling her closer until she felt him tight against her. It meant nothing.

  Her breath caught, not because of his mouth on hers, but because the headlights of the approaching car surrounded them in light.

  Her pulse quickened, not because he held her a second or two longer than required, but because of the danger.

  And when the vehicle finally passed from view, its occupants perhaps dismissing them as the lovers they pretended to be, Griffin let her go. Cold air rushed betw
een them, and he stepped back, not looking at her, but at their surroundings, giving her the moment she needed to catch her breath, compose herself. Then he linked his arm through hers, and they continued their walk, as though this had merely been an impromptu stop on their way. They leaned in to each other, talked about the buildings, holding their hands up to catch snowflakes, saying nothing of import.

  All an act.

  Unfortunately her heart, still rapidly beating, didn’t know the difference, and it was quite some time before it slowed to a normal pace.

  They sauntered up Hobbemastraat, then circled back around to the car. Once there, Griffin pulled the item he’d found from his pocket and held it for her to see.

  “That’s definitely not a knife,” she said, eyeing the sealed Ziploc bag. Inside was a clear plastic tube about an inch in diameter, containing yet another smaller vial filled with a yellowish medium that she hoped was very much frozen. Knowing the things Griffin and his kind were involved with, it was bound to be deadly. Very deadly.

  And then she eyed the droplets on the outside of the bag. “Please tell me that’s melted snow and that it isn’t leaking . . . ?”

  Chapter 28

  December 10

  Washington, D.C.

  Miles Cavanaugh paced the floor in his office, waiting for the damned phone to ring. Bose should have called by now, saying the matter had been handled. What the hell was taking him so damned long? The multi-agency task force to bring in Griffin had been a fiasco. Nothing had gone right. And then there was McNiel, that damned director from ATLAS, who seemed to walk on water. Someone should have ordered him to turn over all the records on Griffin. Worse yet, Miles had heard they’d nearly caught Griffin twice, and still he’d managed to slip through.

  How? Every allied agency had Griffin’s name on their list. His passports under every AKA he’d ever used were now worthless, his credit and bank accounts were no longer accessible. He was completely, utterly in the cold. So how the hell had he eluded their every safeguard?

  The phone rang. Miles tore across the room, picked it up. “Yes?”

  “I found them. Griffin and the woman.”

  “Where are they?”

  “Driving. I’m following them now.”

  “To where?”

  “Not sure yet. Southeast is all I can tell.”

  “I want that package found.”

  “Well, judging from their actions, I’m guessing they found it. They stopped at a store and bought a small ice chest and there wasn’t a six-pack in sight. Unfortunately, I was on the other side of the canal or I would’ve had them by now.”

  “Good. When you get them, clean it up. I don’t want Griffin or this woman around in the end.”

  Chapter 29

  December 10

  Two hours outside Amsterdam

  En route to Winterswijk

  Moonlight cast its pale glow across the countryside, the vast snow-covered fields, with the occasional village seen in the distance. They’d been on the road for almost an hour, and Griffin checked his rearview mirror. The car was still firmly on their tail, had been since they left Amsterdam. Not hard to miss, since one of its headlights was slightly out of adjustment.

  At the moment, there were no other vehicles on the road, which was sort of a good news–bad news thing. Good in that it allowed Griffin to verify that they were definitely being followed, which meant he needed to lose the tail before he led them right to his contact’s door. Bad in that no witnesses and lots of wide, open space left plenty of opportunity for whoever was on their tail to make an attack.

  If there was going to be one, Griffin wanted it on his terms. He braked hard, and the car backed off momentarily, but not for long. It soon sped up, trying to jockey for position alongside them, undoubtedly trying to ram their fender, which would send them spinning. He’d seen the move, used it himself. Griffin hit the gas, pulled ahead, heard the screeching of tires as the other car followed. “Syd.”

  He reached over, tapped her on the thigh. She opened her eyes, looked around sleepily. “What?”

  “I can’t drive and shoot at the same time.” Griffin swerved slightly, braking, then stabbed the gas, hoping the car behind him would back way off.

  “Can’t a girl catch a nap around here?” she said, opening the glove box, removing the weapon.

  “Take out his tire, then you can sleep.”

  Sydney rolled down her window, the icy wind whipping at her hair as she shifted in her seat. Unfortunately, he realized, it meant she’d be shooting weak-handed, never mind against the glare of the headlights, but that couldn’t be helped. He’d seen her on the range and in the field. She was a damned good marksman. When she was in position, he said, “Get ready.”

  “I’m ready.”

  The roadway straightened, and he looked in the mirror, saw the vehicle’s headlights. He let his foot off the gas. The car jerked suddenly as he hit a pothole.

  “Not helping,” Sydney shouted.

  “Sorry.” He focused on the road, tried to keep his driving smooth. She fired a shot. And missed.

  Come on, he pleaded silently. Make it. She fired twice more in succession.

  He heard the sound of metal scraping metal, and he looked in his rearview mirror, saw the car skidding off the road, the beams from its headlights bouncing, then finally coming to rest, at a downward tilt as though the car had landed in a shallow ditch. From the corner of his eye, he saw Sydney scooting back into position, raking her hair out of her face with one hand, as she lowered the Glock to her lap, then rolled up the window.

  “Nice job.”

  “Yeah. Mind if I finish my nap now?”

  Somehow he doubted she was going to be able to sleep. Even so, he smiled, relaxing for the first time since they’d left Amsterdam.

  About a half hour later, with no indication that they were being followed, Sydney looked up, reading the sign on the expressway. “Exactly where are we going?”

  “Winterswijk. I have contacts there who can get me a decent passport. I need ID. Until I get some, we can’t go anywhere.”

  “I thought spies had stacks of passports, one for every day of the week.”

  “Until you get burned.”

  The drive to Winterswijk, a small village on the eastern border near Germany, took an additional hour, and Sydney dozed for the latter part of the trip, waking as Griffin stopped, then made a turn down a long road. To the right, a thicket of trees, branches bare, stretched as far as the eye could see. Griffin drove past the village filled with quaint storybook houses, some with thatched roofs, all with windows glowing gold against the night. Eventually he turned down a street that led away from the village, and into a forest, his eye constantly on his rearview mirror as they wound their way down a single lane road that eventually led to a large white farmhouse.

  Griffin parked in the drive, behind a gray Volvo wagon and a brown pickup truck. “We’re here,” he said. “Hope you like dogs. Dirk has a couple of Hungarian vizslas. They’re friendly as long as he’s around.”

  They got out and walked up the snow-covered path to the door, which opened before they even knocked. Light spilled onto the walkway. A large russet-colored dog bounded down the porch steps, nearly bowling Griffin over in its enthusiasm to greet him.

  “Chip,” a deep voice called out from the porch. The dog stopped in its tracks, its tail wagging. Just behind it, a man, tall as the doorway, stood there, and the dog returned to his side as he waited for them to enter the house.

  “Zach,” Dirk said, clasping Griffin’s outstretched hand with both of his. “You made good time.” He stepped out onto the porch, looked around, his gaze sharp.

  “The weather held,” Griffin replied, stomping the snow from his shoes before entering. “How have you been?”

  Before he could answer, a woman walked up. Sydney figured she was somewhere
between forty and fifty, a head shorter than Sydney, with brown wavy hair that framed a pretty face and blue eyes that lit up the moment she saw Griffin. “Zachary!” she said, rushing forward, her hands outstretched.

  “Monique. You still look the same. As beautiful as ever,” he said, having to bend to accept her greeting, cheek to cheek, three times.

  She turned to Sydney, a look of curiosity in her gaze. “And who is this?”

  Griffin made the introductions.

  “How long can you stay?” Monique asked.

  “Only until morning.”

  “Sometime you must come when you can stay longer,” she replied, taking their coats. She led them through the front parlor past a piano to a room that opened up on the right just before the kitchen. A small sofa and chairs faced the hearth where a fire crackled within.

  “Now sit. Drink, while I cook dinner.” She left the room.

  Dirk poured wine and handed them each a glass. “Surely you didn’t make this trip just for a passport.”

  “You’re right.” Griffin gave him a brief history of the last week’s events, culminating with finding the sealed vial at the museum. “Two people are dead, and someone followed us here. I have a feeling they’re after what’s in that cooler.”

  “What do you think it is?”

  “In my line of work? Things that are frozen in cryo tubes, then placed in another vial and then in an airtight plastic bag usually have deadly consequences. The question is, why would someone send it to Faas?”

  “Faas’s niece didn’t mention anything about this to you?”

  “No. Just that Faas had recently received something I’d be interested in that might answer the who and why. Specifically something I’d want to see in person, because I’d been looking for it for the last couple years. I assumed, naturally, that he meant information on who killed my wife. Not a frozen biological sample.”

  Dirk poured more wine into his glass. “Maybe there’s something else. Something about where it came from?”